It was dark, so very dark, John was surrounded on all sides by it, like he was submerged in boiling water and was drowning. If it wasn't for the continuous, acute pain all around he would have thought he was dead. He tried desperately, but he couldn't remember who he was, where he was or what he was doing there. He was so very tired, he wanted nothing more for him to sleep, make the pain go away, but there was a franticly urgent voice, his inner doctor that was commanding him to stay awake, stay alive.
He was confused, he felt dread thinking about dyeing, something deep inside him told him that he needed to protect... what? Protect what..? Protect who! He was desperately angry and frustrated at himself now, why couldn't he function properly, he was barely able to grasp reality and it was a horrible way to be, this is worse than anything that had ever happened in Afghanistan! Wait, Afghanistan? Why did he just think that? Why... Oh! That's right! He remembered now! He remembered Afghanistan! He was a solider! No... Wait... That was wrong; he was a war-doctor.
Something was breaking his concentration, a muffle in the back of his brain. Something telling him, urging him, commanding him to do something, he couldn't quite catch what; he tried, listening harder, his sluggish brain kicking into overdrive.
Open my eyes... open my eyes... it was a chant, like a holy mantra.
Doing so was one of the hardest things he had ever done in his life and this from a man who couldn't even remember his own name. It seemed an age before he managed to pry his eyes open a fraction. It wasn't great; his vision was fuzzy and black tendrils framed his line of sight. Despite all this, there were two distinct colours that he could make out in the befuddling haze.
Blue, a pale kind of blue that you get in small, controlled bodies of water and a stale off-white, like tiles and then his sense of smell kicked in. The smell was familiar, he had known of it, but he couldn't piece together what it actually was.
He tried to move, but it felt like he had a ton of lead attached to each limb and he had no muscle mass at all. He heard a muffled whimper and it took a few seconds before he realised it was coming from himself. His ears rang painfully.
He lay there for what seemed like an age, he let his mind run, slowly, he began to join the dots, associate names, faces and memories together, despite the pain, which, as he started to grasp reality better, was getting agonizing. He slowly identified the smell in the air, which had suddenly become horrible, was smoke, with an underlining of chlorine. Chlorine... John was confused; he thought chlorine was only... Realisation hit him like a bus! As if that sent was the last, very important piece of the puzzle in his mind. Everything else clicked into place.
He was John Watson.
He was a Doctor.
He was in a swimming pool, and a bomb had just gone off.
He groaned, squirming and shifting slightly, he was gaining more bodily functions as he waited. Something was weighing him down from the hips down; it was heavy and uncomfortable and seamed to dig mercilessly into his right thigh muscle. He was becoming increasingly aware of the dull throb that was coming from the back of his head, his shaking hand slid up along the pale, damp tiles to inspect himself. He touched the source of pain, pulling back as his hand came back sticky and red. He groaned loudly, blood. He tried to move again, only to discover that a fallen iron girder was the cause of the pain from his waist down. He let out a pathetic whimper as he tried to push it off himself and relieve some of the pain he was feeling right now. However, he still had a serious case of the jellies, as if his muscles were made of rubber and found that it was using up all his energy and the girder still hadn't budged.
He was panicky now, he knew he had lost allot of blood and would continue to do so until he got medical help. He remembered Sherlock; he had been in the explosion too. He wondered if he was all right, maybe he was dead all ready, John scolded himself for thinking that. Sherlock Holmes wasn't that easily taken down. However, despite his reasoning, he was still nervous about the detective's well-being. He coughed, letting out a shuddery breath as he gathered words in his sore brain. He barely managed to call out Sherlock's name before he was reduced to violent coughing and hacking.
He wanted to vomit, but he couldn't do it, his gut wrenched repeatedly as a wave of fear, pain and nausea washed over him. And the girder seemed to be getting more and more painful as time progressed.
He squirmed and tried again, louder this time, his voice a loud harsh croak that did more harm than good. He felt tears of pain and helplessness well up in his eyes, not daring; however, to spill over, he was a stronger man then that, he had lay down his life for his country for god sake. He was trying to calm himself down; getting all worked up wasn't going to help him or Sherlock. There was probably a police squadron on their way to the swimming pool now, with an explosion of that intensity, they had to go poking their noses in.
He had finally managed to calm down when he noticed the pressure on his waist was lessening, in fact, the girder had been lifted off entirely. Still too disorientated and fuzzy-sighted to piece together why it had happened; he immediately went to try and sit up.
Something pushed him down as he was half way up. He fell to the floor, moaning in pain as his head smacked off the tiles. His mind spun as he writhed in white hot agony for a few minutes. He was breathing raggedly. He felt someone's presence beside him. He tensioned up at the sound of quiet, cruel laughter, it rung in his mind like the knelling of a funeral bell and filled him with the same dread as one would.
He flinched and whimpered against his will when someone started running their cold fingers through his hair none-too-gently. John was still unable to identify who it actually was; his eyes were clamped shut to block out his spinning world. For a second, he thought it was Sherlock but he dismissed this idea as soon as it appeared in his mind. Sherlock wasn't unfriendly and unpleasant to him, not at all; in fact he seemed to try hard to be nice to him.
Who was it, if it wasn't Sherlock...?
His stomach dropped and fear shot through him like a gunshot.
Moriarty... James Moriarty.
He was suddenly frantic; Moriarty sensed this, smiling gleefully, knowing that he had figured it out. "Hush now John, it's all right." He cooed mockingly, stroking his hair with a gentleness that left John paralyzed with fear. Moriarty was grinning wolfishly as he shimmied down beside John's head, lifting it up so he could place it on his lap, not noticing or caring about the blood that started to seep into his trousers, his suit was ruined anyway.
He continued to stroke John's hair and John was starting to feel very nauseous about being so close to the man who had just had a bomb strapped to him. He seemed to ignore this as he continued "I'm glad you're alive, John, I find you fascinating." His voice, however, sounded sinister and somewhat condescending. John laughed bitterly, although it came out like a croak "Do you strap a bomb to everyone who fascinates you, or am I special?" his voice portrayed no emotion but his eyes held bitter hatred.
His sight was getting better, he was beginning to see the contours and facial features of the other man, the twisted grin he had on his face and the idiotic pride that rolled off of him in waves, it made him want to punch Moriarty very, very hard.
"No John," he mused, arrogant smirk never leaving John's eyes "you're special..." he purred, looking predatory, a glint in his eyes that made John uneasy and sick to the stomach. He licked his dry lips nervously "Funnily enough," he started, feeling Moriarty's hand twitch in his hair "that doesn't make me feel great."
Moriarty giggled, it was dark and dangerous and sent a shudder down his spine. He suddenly felt Moriarty's hand grip his hair hard, yanking it slightly. John let out a small cry of pain, screwing his eyes shut once more. The giggling died down and he felt Moriarty's terrifying gaze on him again.
"You know John," his voice had a sultry feel to it and John didn't like it at all "I really should hate you, you captivate Sherlock's interest so easily." There was sincerity and childish jealousy in his voice now "all you were to me in the beginning was another person in my way, another pesky person that blocked Sherlock from me, but I see now." He stopped, John would have thought he had hesitated, but he didn't seem the type to do so "Now I see that you are the key to breaking him, and for that, you have my infatuation." There was a dark awe in his voice that worried him. Moriarty was infatuated by him? Was this his idea of a practical Joke?
He suddenly felt a vice grip on his face, he was pulled upwards, till a pair of harsh, cold lips slammed over his. His eyes flew open and his stomach dropped like a brick. The lips were hungry and demanding, prying John's mouth open by force and slipping his tongue inside, letting out a satisfied groan. John was unresponsive, his brain couldn't seem to process what was going on, but his body reacted to it against his will, moaning into the heated kiss before he could stop himself from doing so. He felt a curve in Moriarty's lips and a purr of pleasure, muffled by the kiss. John's weak right arm flew up, gripping Moriarty's shoulder in a vice, whether it was to keep him there, or try pulling him away, John didn't even know, he would prefer to think the latter, but at this stage, he was kissing back, weakly and somewhat half-heartedly but it was still something.
Finally, after what had seemed an age, Moriarty broke the kiss, smirking proudly against John's lips. "A little parting gift," his voice was husky, it held arousal that both mortified and excited John "let's see how Sherlock reacts to you stealing the kiss meant for him," he settled John back onto the ground, standing up hastily.
John could vaguely hear the sound of sirens, getting louder. Moriarty sighed, glancing down at the Doctor as he spoke "it seems that they arrived quicker than I expected, too bad, I was just starting to enjoy myself too," he pouted childishly, hunkering down next to John.
John was glaring at him in a way that made him excited, with sheer hatred. "Go to hell!" it was harsh and painful to say, his throat was screaming in agony yet John still felt the need to yell. Moriarty giggled, grabbing his face and pulling him into another rough kiss before he broke away and answered "Already there, my dear."
And with that, he was gone from John's sight, he could still hear him; the clicking of his shoes off the tiled floor. It seemed to echo louder than the frantic sirens that were coming ever closer to the swimming pool; it was a calm, leisurely pace that seemed to chill him to the bone. He was always so calm, it aggravated John.
He felt a sudden wave of tiredness wash over him; he was exhausted and starting to slip into unconsciousness as he heard urgent footfalls and loud, echoed voices. He felt someone check his pulse when he succumbed to the darkness entirely.
When John woke up in a different room to his own, his first reaction was sheer panic. However, that panic disappeared as soon as he saw Sherlock sitting next to his bed, glaring intently at the sandwich that was in his hand.
"Staring at it won't make it go away; usually you're supposed to eat it,"
Sherlock's head shot up and he was unable to mask the surprised look on his face as he stared into John's eyes. There was an awkward silence "You're awake John." John rolled his eyes before replying, "No shit Sherlock," he laughed playfully, shifting in his bed, trying to find a more comfortable spot.
Sherlock did little to hide the sheer happiness he felt, throwing his arms around John's neck and holding his body against him "thank goodness," he breathed , John's stubble tickling his cheek as it was pressed to his face "I thought you weren't going to wake up," his voice sounded harsh and sincere at the same time, choked with strange emotions.
John placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, he felt bad for causing the detective grief. "How long was I out?" John asked quietly, hugging back gingerly, his left arm seared painfully but he did his best to ignore it.
"Five days." Came a muffled reply, Sherlock had buried his head in the crook of John's neck. John winced, Sherlock sounded tired, had he stayed there for five days? He certainly smelt like it, he was in desperate need of a shower. He was suddenly filled with a warm happiness towards Sherlock's concern.
"I'm sorry for worrying you Sherlock" his voice was quiet; he was trying to hide the bashfulness the statement held. Sherlock finally pulled back, staring into John's eyes, he smiled ever so slightly, leaning forward to place a small, yet meaningful kiss on his forehead.
"I'm just happy you're alive" he muttered, John could feel how awkward Sherlock was feeling right now, as if he didn't know what to do. John looked down, he muttered; "Moriarty, he survived the explosion."
There was a deafening silence before Sherlock sighed, pulling away and sitting himself back down on his chair "I know," he said, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
John remembered what Moriarty had said to him about his importance in Sherlock's downfall, he remembered the kisses, both of them, and suddenly felt a flood of shame for kissing back. But he remembered more then everything else his reply to John's demand;
"Already there, my dear."
It chilled him to the bone, he glanced at Sherlock, who was suddenly deep in thought, he looked worried, conflicted, he kept on glancing at John nervously, well, as nervous as you can get with Sherlock. It suddenly clicked in his head what Sherlock was wondering, he didn't like it.
"I'm not leaving you now, Sherlock." Sherlock looked up meekly, steel blue locked with hazel-blue. John was smiling encouragingly as he placed a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "We'll take down Moriarty together, that I can promise you, besides," John said, a cocky grin spreading across his face "you'd be dead from sleep-deprivation of malnutrition within the first month." Sherlock huffed indignantly, a sour expression on his face; he says nothing however, knowing full well that John was speaking the truth.
John made up his mind then and there; he wasn't going to let Moriarty use him to do his bidding, he would protect Sherlock with his whole life and that, was indeed, a solemn promise.